


Cookies and Consistencies

by SarcasmFish (Alcyonidae)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyonidae/pseuds/SarcasmFish
Summary: The Herald attempts to repay her Commander's kindness by baking him cookies.  Perhaps she should have listened closer to Dorian's advice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Optional per-requisite reading** : [Parchment and Patience](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9652829) (the story you're currently on is sort of a sequel, but can be read alone)

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing, darling.”  Dorian leaned against the butchertop beside her in a way that only Dorian could.  He did not so much as lean, but recline with an elegance unbelonging a dark cramped kitchen.  A glass of something floated between his fingers.

“They’re just cookies, Dorian.  I’m not making an entire meal.”  She drove the wooden spoon into the bowl and began turning over the mixture, incorporating the white flour into the other ingredients.  The spoon stuck into the concoction, requiring her to force her way through it with effort.  Excess flour exploded out of the side each time she forced the utensil through the thickened goo.

“Have you ever made cookies before?”

“No.”

“Have you ever cooked anything before?”

“No, but I’ve eaten plenty of things.  Plus, I’m a mage.  I can follow directions.”  She gestured with her elbow at the paper beside her.  It was covered in flour and stained with bits of other substances, some of the words were almost entirely obscured.  “Look, the cook wrote them down for me.”

“I think there’s more to baking than just following a recipe, my dear.  It’s a culinary art.  There’s things you learn from experience.”  He leaned forward to peer into the bowl.  “Like how mixing it too much will make them tough.”

She rewarded him with a foul scowl and tossed the spoon aside.  With sleeves rolled up to her elbows she dug into the mixture, forming it into small lumpy balls and setting them in rows along a baking sheet.

Dorian seemed unaffected by her disinterest in his advice and watched her set out each future cookie.  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to read his expression.

“Out with it.  I know you want to say something.”

“Last you told me you were terrified of the man, so-“

“I said nothing of the sort!”  That scowl was back along with an indignant flash in her eyes, the current ball in her hands ended up mashed a little lopsided.

“You may as well.  It was heavily implied.”  Dorian held up his glass, examining the tiny imperfections along the rim.  “As I was saying, I’m trying to fathom why you’re up to your elbows in Maker-knows-what baking him cookies now.  You’re hardly the domestic type, oh Holy Chosen Herald of Andraste Herself.”

She wiped the back of her wrist over her cheek, smudging a streak of white under her eye.

“He did something nice for me, something unexpected.”  She appeared as if she were talking to the cookies, refusing to meet Dorians gaze.  “I want to repay the favor.  I don’t have any other useful skills aside from magic and I doubt an ex-Templar wants any of that.”

“Pity for him.”  Dorian shrugged, swirling his glass as he pushed away from the work area to leave.  “Just don’t burn them.”

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Another brisk morning on the practice fields of Haven found Cullen hunkered down inside the fur mantle encompassing his shoulders.  The soldiers around him fumbled and mumbled about the bitter winds lancing through their armor, making their grip lose and clumsy.  The Commander ground his teeth at the lack of fortitude and barked out orders for another round of practice sparring.  If his men thought the enemy would engage them on a plush, warm battlefield it was his job to correct their assumptions.

He sensed her before he even noticed her presence beside him.  A curious little bundle of warmth, a grey scarf wrapped loose around her neck, she looked out of place on this frigid plane.  One of the plates from the kitchen was clasped in her hands, a napkin shielding it from winter’s breath.  She seemed torn with distraction between observing the practicing soldiers and eyeing him like a wary animal.

He turned then to her, to afford her his full attention and offered a smile he hoped would put her at ease.  She took a step closer to him and it bolstered that smile.  He had noted in the past how she kept out of arms reach when standing near him.  Dorian had pointed out with joyful malice that Cullen’s armor, mantle, and military presence made him big and threatening, especially to a former Circle mage.  It had not been a conscience fashion choice.  Though the threatening part worked well on his men, he did not wish to be menacing to the mages working with them.

The Herald thrust back her shoulders and tilted her chin up.  He was always surprised how she could switch from apprehensive mage to influential leader when needed.  Josephine had mentioned that the Trevelyans were a rich and powerful family.  He wondered how much of it was instinct and how much was learned.

“Commander.  I wanted to thank you.  I baked these this morning.”  Her speech was rushed and spit out with force.

“Thank me?”  He took hold of the plate she thrust into his hands.

“For returning my book to me yesterday.”

“Oh, oh yes,” he stammered.  He had found a worn green book left on the war room table and returned it to the Herald.  She had been reluctant to take it from him until he had realized it was likely the only item she felt ownership of and as a former Templar she had assumed he had pawed through it.  When he assured her it had remained safe and firmly closed in his hands she had taken it and thanked him.  Apparently the words alone had not been enough for her.  “There was no need to go to such trouble for me, Herald.”

“It was no trouble.”  She smiled at his stunned appearance and the smile, for once, lit up her eyes like the blue at the bottom of a Lyrium philter.

He peeled back the napkin to reveal a little hill of cookies balanced on the plate.  They were large and slightly misshapen, but substantial in substance.  The edges were brown with wild chunks and squares of chopped chocolate protruding out.  How long had it been since he had sunk into a cookie still warm from the oven?  He certainly could not remember.

He selected one from the top and took a generous bite.  The cookie crunched between his teeth, the edges were dry and brittle, but the inside was still gooey.  It was not the gooey of melted chocolate, but more the bland bitter taste of unmixed lumps of flour.  The parts that were mixed were tough, more akin to jerky than bakery item.

He quickly schooled his face away from the grimace that fought its way to his features.  He worked to swallow down the bite and appear at least neutral.  Cullen was raised a soldier, he did not have the training of disguising his emotions like the Herald or Leliana or Josephine.

She knew.  A dawning horror crept across her face.  He struggled to find something to say, to not offend her with a total lie but still express his gratitude for her thoughtful gift.

“I… I tasted one.”  Her voice was small, almost lost in the surrounding winds of winter.  “It wasn’t so bad.”

She took a step back.  Her cheeks flushed red, muscles tensing as flight colored her eyes.  He had begun to learn the signs of when she was about to flee.

He cleared his throat and offered a smile.  Before he could speak a figure appeared at his elbow and reached to snag a cookie off the plate.

“Oh, are these chocolate?  My favorite.”  The Herald yelped and shot out a hand to stop Varric from placing the cookie into his mouth, but was too slow.  The dwarf made an awful grimace, as if he had just eaten dirt from the tavern floor.  “Ugh, please tell me we’re sending these to harass the Red Templars.”  He wiped his tongue along the sleeve of his coat and made another face.  “If this is for the refugees… that’s just cruel.” 

Varric placed the rest of the uneaten cookie back on the edge of the plate.  “Who made these awful things?”

In that moment Cullen saw the Herald change, saw her shoulders square, her head come up and a fixed mask fall over her expression.  It was not one of anger or displeasure, but cold apathy.  She became every noble he had ever come across.  He could imagine her hair longer, done up and accented with jewels and baubles.  He saw her in a flowing dress of the latest fashion turning down advances on the dance floor with grace, poise, and just the right amount of veiled malice to keep other nobles in their place.

That timid, obedient mage disappeared and Lady Talia Trevelyan stepped forward.  He had seen this side of her only a few times and only at the War Table when vital decisions were on the line.  She had no problem making her opinion known when this mask fell into place.

“I did.”  There was a bite in her voice, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.  “And they were a gift for Commander Cullen.  Not for you.”

Varric stared up at her, blinking in silent confusion.  It appeared he had not been privy to this part of the Herald before.

She turned and strode back into the village without a backward glance.

Varric stared after her.  Cullen had never seen the man so stunned.

“Curly, I like to think I’m a good judge of character, it’s my profession after all, but I was completely wrong about that one.”  He patted Cullen on the arm and headed in a different direction than the Herald had taken, calling after.  “Good luck!”

Cullen stared down at the plate left in his hand a moment longer, attempting to fathom all that had happened so quickly.  He could not let this mar the small breakthroughs he had already made with the Herald.  He signaled the lieutenant to take over training and then chased after the woman.

She had not gotten far, he called out to her before she could disappear inside of the small cabin they had set her up in.  She turned slowly and leveled an appraising look at him.  That aristocratic air lingered around her and in her posture.  Though it made her more closed off, he was almost glad to see it instead of the docile mage she became while around him.

“I once made bread out of salt for my mother,” he blurted.

Her eyebrows lifted.

“It was for her birthday.”  He scrambled to correct his bumbled introduction.  “Every morning she would bake bread.  I was 9 and wanted to do it for her that morning.  I watched her for weeks and the day of her birthday I woke up early.”  He gave himself a small, self-depreciating chuckle.  “But it turns out I mistook the sugar for salt.”

The guarded expression on her face began to fade and her posture opened.  That curiosity he loved to see filled her eyes.  It begged for more information despite the uncertainties she held.

“What did she say?”

“My sisters and brother gagged and made all manner of faces, but my mother,” he paused a moment, taking time to recall the memory.  “She hugged and thanked me for helping me with her work.  She never mentioned the taste.”

He brought the plate of cookies closer to himself.  “So I wanted to say that while they did not turn out as you intended, I am still thankful for them.”

She clasped her hands in front of her and regarded him with an evaluative gaze that made him want to shift in place like a nervous recruit at armor inspection.  She glanced away a moment in thought and he began to wonder if it might be some sort of dismissal.  He took a deep breath and began to turn away.

“I’m sorry about my behavior.”  The statement was so sudden and so honest he almost let his mouth gape open.

She took a tentative step closer to him, almost entering a normal proximity.  Her voice was soft, but not fearful.  “I’m sure Leliana has pages and pages on me to read-“

“I haven’t,” he interrupted.  “Read anything about you, that is.  If there’s something you want me to know, you have the right to tell me when you feel ready.”

He balanced the plate in one hand and settled the other on the pommel of his sword to keep them from shaking.  The conversation had turned so personal, but it was what she needed to hear if she were to trust him.  Them.  If she were to trust them.

She looked away from him again, seeming to search the grass for words to speak.  Her posture had changed again, more vulnerable, but not in a frightened way, more like a welcome.  He thought back to his promise to take what was given and push for no more.

He picked up one of the cookies and bit into the edge of it again.  The perimeter was still a bit dry, but mixed and edible.  She jerked her eyes up at the sound and almost reached out to pull it away before he could go in for a second bite, face full of panic.

“Wait!”

He leveled a crooked smirk at her.  “You know, they’re not all bad.  The edges aren’t burnt at least.”

He offered out the plate to her.  She took up one of the cookies with a cautious stare.  He offered an encouraging smile and took another bite along the edge.  She took a few wary nibbles along the border of her own and gave a brief nod.

“I suppose they’re not all bad.”  She offered him a tentative smile, brushing a few crumbs from her lip.  “Well, enjoy your cookie edges then.”

“I will.”  He gave her a bit of a bow, balancing the plate in one hand.  He was unsure why he had bowed to her, she had made it quite clear she was not Lady Trevelyan, but it felt right.

She returned his gesture with an almost instinctual curtsey.  He felt his smile falter for just a flash.  The curtsey had caught him off guard.  He was no noble.  He could count the number of times someone had given him an honest curtsey on one hand.  It made her suddenly look younger, like a girl playing at being a princess, instead of an over-burdened figurehead.  It made him wish he could spend more time here with her, learn more about her.  But she had duties just as he did.

He wrapped the napkin around the plate to keep his bounty safe.  “Thank you again, Herald.”

“Thank you again, Commander.”

This time, the smile he extended was returned.


End file.
